


the american nightmare

by akaiiko



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Demon Deals, Demon Shiro (Voltron), Gothic Americana, Hunter Keith (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaiiko/pseuds/akaiiko
Summary: Somewhere along the way, he gazed too long into the abyss.Keith offers up his hand and braces himself.Teeth snap again, but it’s as much capitulation as anything else. Shiro grips Keith’s wrist and lifts it to his mouth. Their gaze meet, briefly, and there’s something rare and dark in those golden eyes that make Keith’s gut twist. Beneath Shiro’s hand, the beads of the silver bracelet almost seem to chime. All those little pieces of his soul that he’s sold off to the demon. Tohisdemon.Flicking his tongue out, Shiro catches the last sluggish traces of blood smeared across Keith’s thumb. Another bead appears on the bracelet as the deal snaps into place.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 172





	the american nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally for the _shape of sheith_ zine. fun fact: my very first zine. anyway i held off on posting it cos i wanted to expand it but honestly i'm a tired bitch with two brain cells so please accept this fic which crams about 40k worth of worldbuilding into like 3k. /jazzhands

No one has to tell him that he’s only got three deals left. He can sense it in the weight of the silver bracelet lacing up his arm, in the sharp tang of ozone layering into his normal scent of old leather and knife polish, in the ache in his bones when he dares to walk on holy ground. The miracle is that he’s lasted this long.

All highways run out of road and so all humans run out of soul.

Gravel kicks up beneath his bike as he skids to a halt on the shoulder off I-10. There’s nothing but asphalt and desert for miles. As he plants a foot on the gravel to steady the bike, he swears he can feel the liminality of the highway shoulder humming in his bones. Out here’s the kind of place where the dangers of the open road lurk. Hitchers of the ghostly kind and beasts from the canyon voids. Things normal people fear. Things he kills.

Tonight there’s only the coyote that found him somewhere between New Mexico and Arizona. Not the natural kind of beast. Too big, with fur like moonlight and eyes like old Spanish gold. Places like this have as many monsters as stars in the sky, but this one is all Keith’s.

“Ho there, Shiro,” he calls. Because he’s still got some manners, rough as they are, he holds out his hand for the coyote to sniff.

Warmth imprints itself along his thigh, even through thick denim, as Shiro leans into him. Brief as comforts go. Too soon Shiro nips at the silver that rests just above the throbbing pulse at his wrist. Back at the start, before he took his own road to hell, he used to flinch when this happened. Now he rubs his thumb along one massive fang and croons, “My, what big teeth you have.”

That gets him a growl.

Pulling his hand away from Shiro’s muzzle, he lifts it to his own mouth and bites into the pad of his thumb. Blood stings his tongue. His teeth are getting big too, and it’s easier than it should be to nip through calluses. Keith remembers when he used to have to cut his hand open with his mother’s athame.

As more blood drips onto his tongue, he hesitates. Thinks about smearing it off on his jeans and heading for the nearest normal. Maybe he’ll never get back to human, but he’s still got years ahead of him if he wants.

Like he hears the turn of Keith’s thoughts, Shiro nips at Keith’s tee shirt. It’s worryingly close to his belly. “Hey,” Keith says. “Cut that out.” More to have voiced the protest than because he thinks it’ll stop Shiro. When he looks down though, he feels his breath catch in his throat for an awful moment.

The fur at Shiro’s ruff is up and his ears are flat against his skull. Golden eyes meet his, eerie beneath the desert moon, and Keith looks away first.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he mutters. It’d been a heartbeat wish, anyway.

But Shiro doesn’t settle. Ears still pinned back, he leans heavier against Keith’s thigh. The weight of him is steady. Like a promise or an absolution. It’s useless to reckon with what’s got him wound up this time. Could be anything or nothing. In the decade they’ve worked together, he’s learned that demons don’t operate on the same logic as everyone else. Mostly that’s fine. Keith doesn’t really operate on logic either.

Moon’s rising over the Chiricahua Mountains. Deal’s still not set. Keith’s nearly out of soul. Offering up his hand with a sigh, he says, “C’mon, Shiro, we’ve got work.”

Rather than shifting to take the blood offering and the deal, Shiro growls again. The sound is solid and primal as the thunder that rolls down off the Great Divide. Felt as much as heard. Sort of thing that reminds people there are older and more terrible predators in this world than humanity.

Instincts Keith’d nearly forgotten rise up. The bike’s revved and he’s got the athame gripped in his unblooded hand before he can think to stop. Doesn’t do a lick of good. That growl overpowers the bike’s engine. Makes the hairs on the back of hiss neck stand on end.

Teeth snap at the night air as Shiro lunges toward him.

Keith jolts the bike a few feet forward. It’s not running, exactly. Just getting out of range. The bottom of his boot scuffs the gravel. Kicks up dust that’ll clog his lungs. When the front wheel of his bike kisses the blacktop, he looks back.

Shiro’s ears are pricked toward him, ruff settling and growl quieting. Even without speech it’s clear what the coyote wants.

Cutting the engine, Keith stares. “What the _hell_.” Heart’s pounding somewhere west of normal, loud enough to drown out the muted growling, and he’s mad now. Everything’s sharper. Clearer. More bitter. “I’m not going anywhere till you tell me what’s going on.” Keeping his word is easy now, even as Shiro lunges again with a snarl, because he knows in his bones that his demon’ll never hurt him. Not really. Not where it counts.

And he’s right.

Shadows cling to the shifting form as Shiro goes from coyote to something else. What looms above him, haloed in moonlight, isn’t a man. Not really. Too monstrous and too beautiful for that. Keith’s eyes trace over the jutting horns and the patterning—like a sugar skull for the Day of the Dead—that highlights strong cheekbones.

“Keith.” It’s a warning, snarled out between bared fangs. The powerful muscles of Shiro’s shoulders knot with aggression, but they’re curved over Keith protectively. “We’re not dealing tonight. Go back.”

“No,” Keith says. “I’m going hunting, deal or no.”

“Little king…”

Keith offers up his hand and braces himself.

Teeth snap again, but it’s as much capitulation as anything else. Shiro grips Keith’s wrist and lifts it to his mouth. Their gaze meet, briefly, and there’s something rare and dark in those golden eyes that make Keith’s gut twist. Beneath Shiro’s hand, the beads of the silver bracelet almost seem to chime. All those little pieces of his soul that he’s sold off to the demon. To _his_ demon.

Flicking his tongue out, Shiro catches the last sluggish traces of blood smeared across Keith’s thumb. Another bead appears on the bracelet as the deal snaps into place.

* * *

Locals say she's taken half a dozen children in the last decade. Rather, that's what they say when the liquor hits them just right. In the sober light of morning they change the story.

Regardless of how they tell it, the story ends the same damn way. Six kids, both genders, between the ages of eight and sixteen. It’s the sweet sixteen that catches his attention. La Llorona go after kids that resemble their own. Variance like this is a hell of a thing.

“What was her name again?” he asks.

The old barfly he’s been exchanging gossip with taps a gnarled finger against his beer bottle. “Don’t rightly know,” the man admits. “Kid had barely gotten here. A runner, you know, life hadn’t been real kind to her. Sweet girl though. Was a real pity when she ended up dead. Put out all the notices to the law but no one ever claimed her body.” Quietly he knocks back the dregs of his beer. “Real pity.”

Weather says they’re due for a flash flood and so Keith goes out.

Blood’s still on his palm from the deal when he gets the athame into La Llorona’s shoulder. Not a killing blow though he knows he’ll regret it. Oh, how she howls at her first brush with pain in decades.

“Tell me her name,” he snarls. “Tell me the name of the oldest girl!” Penny, her name was Penny, and she’d been found wrong side up in the river like bad luck. Keith nearly dies to pay for that name.

Drenched on the side of the Arkansas River, he pushes back his hair and waits for Shiro to finish quartering the bank. Sour adrenaline has him gripping the athame too tight. That’s probably why Shiro lets his paws crunch on the riverbank as he stalks back over to Keith’s side. “Don’t say a damn word,” Keith says. “Not a word.”

Easy as anything, Shiro drifts from coyote to man. He traces a claw over the sluggishly bleeding cut at Keith’s temple. Heat flares briefly in the wound before the skin knits back together. When Shiro doesn’t pull back, Keith nudges his cheek more firmly against Shiro’s palm.

“How many deals left?” he asks.

Looking up through his lashes, he watches as Shiro’s eyes fade to an almost human shade of driftwood. “Seven,” Shiro tells him. His thumb rubs Keith’s chapped lower lip. “You have seven deals left, little king.”

“Good,” Keith breathes. Closes his eyes. “You know they count me as one of hers? All they’ve got about me is that I was a foster kid who got lost in the desert.” Licking his lips, he wonders if it was a blessing that his morbid curiosity hadn’t extended to finding out if they marked a grave for him or not. If they did it’s the only kind of marker he’ll ever get. “At least someone remembers me. Even if it’s as part of a ghost story.”

“Is that why you do this?” Shiro asks. “Because no human will mourn you?”

All a sudden he can’t get far enough away. Stumbling to his feet, he looks down at the demon and snaps, “I’m doing this because it’s right.” Exhaustion pricks heat at the backs of his eyelids and he swipes his forearm across his face. “I’m doing this to finish what I started.”

* * *

They make it to the river as the rain starts to fall. Keith can feel her on the wind, all electricity and grief, the same way a hare feels a cougar. Other monsters he will never fear. But this one came so close to devouring him.

Pulling the athame from its sheath at his hip, he loosens his stance and appreciates the blooded weight of the knife in his hand. Shiro comes up behind him and grips his shoulder. It’s a little easier to breathe, then, without paying attention to the pricking sensation in his lungs from death so close.

But this isn’t the hand they dealt. “Shiro, stand down,” Keith says. The hand at his shoulder disappears. No crunch of paws on dirt or snap of teeth to reassure him that his demon’s still at his back. Keith wishes he’d made a different deal.

Thunder rattles his bones as he counts the seconds. Lightning gnaws into the horizon. Two miles from the eye. Storm’s riding in fast. La Llorona comes with the lightning.

Once, she had been a great beauty. In death she wears a violet gown trimmed with gold and her bone white hair is bound up with pins. The void lives in her eyes. “Is that you?” she says. “I’ve missed you so, my blue-eyed boy.”

As she reaches for him with elegant hands, beckoning, his cheeks sting. Keith wants to pretend it’s from the wind, but he knows it’s more from the memory her to cupping his face in her hands as she crooned how very much she loved him. As a child, desperate for the mother he’d longed for and hated by turns, he’d wanted to believe her.

“I thought you would never return,” she says.

“I knew I would,” he answers.

Finally she’s close enough, ready to pull him into an embrace that’ll make him another body in her river. Keith lunges for her. The athame catches only air as she disappears. Moves in the blinding dark between lightning. This is why others don’t hunt her.

Silver beads chime at his wrist as he arcs the blade for her throat again. Rain plasters his hair to his face but his aim’s true. Nicking across her collarbone, he grins at the look of rage that twists her features even as she’s forced to shift away again. And this is why Keith hunts her.

* * *

The need for fuel and sleep carries him into a small town with a smaller motel. Forty bucks gets him a clean room. When he sits on the bed, he gets a faint whiff of burger grease and diesel oil and cigarette smoke. All of it comforting in its humanity.

Keith doesn’t flinch as he drags the athame over his thumb. Blood wells quickly and he presses it into the silver beads looped around his forearm.

Doesn’t take long before the mingled scent of desert and sulfur infuses the air. If he were anyone else it’d probably make him nervous, but he made his choices a long time back. Still making the same choices.

Thumbing at the bracelet, he says, “The girl at the front desk wanted to buy this off me.” Weak as openers go, but he figures it’ll merit at least a chuff.

“You told her no.” No amusement. It almost sounds like a question, or maybe more of a command. It can be hard to tell with Shiro.

Keith rolls his eyes. “I told her no.” Most things in Keith’s life are transient. The bracelet has been winding around his wrist and up his forearm since he was fifteen. It’ll be there when they bury whatever’s left of him. “Are you going to lurk in the shadows all night?”

Doesn’t matter how he’s braced. When Shiro slides into this plane, the shitty mattress dips beneath his weight and sends Keith tumbling back. A soft _uff_ escapes him as he lands against Shiro’s chest.

Warm hands settle on his waist, thumbs framing his spine and fingers flaring out possessively over the flat of his stomach. Claws snag on his old cotton tee. It could be a threat, but the whole ritual is as familiar to Keith as his bike or his athame. “What do you want tonight, little king?” Shiro asks. 

Hunters mostly aren’t much for contemplating their existence or the things they do in pursuit of the greater good. _Don’t gaze long into the abyss_ , they tell each other. It’s the one bit of philosophy or maybe even religion that they can cling to.

And it hurts, suddenly, how little of him is still human.

Keith twists and loop his arms around Shiro’s neck. Buries his face in the mane of white fur that slowly morphs into chest hair as it trails down his demon’s chest. What he wants to say is _stay_. But instead he whispers, “Wait until the morning. Please.”

Whatever he expects, it’s not for Shiro to lay back on the shitty mattress. Or for Shiro settle his hand at the dip of Keith’s spine and pin him close. “I’m never leaving you,” Shiro says. That too should sound like a threat, but it feels more like a promise. Keith sleeps easy for the first time in months.

* * *

This is the singular truth of La Llorona: they only haunt those desperate to be haunted.

Keith focuses too much on striking. Doesn’t notice as she herds him toward the river. Pays for getting the athame into the space between her ribs with letting her drag him down. The sky arcs in a dizzy roil of storm clouds. Lightning cracks but all he can hear is his own thundering heartbeat.

“Shi—”

Water swallows them. Stupid, to call for Shiro, to waste precious air. Keith thrashes but gets nowhere, even as his blade digs deeper into La Llorona’s side. If she were human she would let go. Try to escape the pain.

Instead she holds him closer. Her arms and her laugh are cold as snow melt. “You’ve always belonged to me.”

No, he never has. Bubbles escape from between his teeth as he growls. Twisting the athame, he feels it grind against her ribs and watches as the pins start to fall from her hair. Instinct tells him to claw his way back to the surface while she’s weak.

Keith shifts his grip on the athame, white knuckled, and wrenches it out. La Llorona howls and claws at him, but it’s too late. Next time he stabs, he feels something vital give, and he bares his teeth at her to show the fangs she made him grow.

Briefly her skirts tangle around his legs. One last attempt to drag him down with her. Then she’s gone, and he’s alone in the dark water with no way of telling where the surface is. Exhaustion and oxygen deprivation weighs at his limbs as he runs the athame across his palm. Fuck if he’s giving her the satisfaction of killing him.

Shiro’s hand seizes the back of his neck as soon as he slaps his palm over the bracelet. It’s all he can do not to breathe in as he’s towed to the surface. Black spots lurk at his edges before they make it to shore.

He’s left collapsed across Shiro’s lap, lungs working as he tips his head back and takes in the clearing skies. Shiro seizes his forearm. “You shouldn’t have made me stand down,” his demon snarls. Blood coats the silver bracelet and smears under Shiro’s palm, but it’s nothing compared to what could’ve happened and they both know it.

Keith laughs. There’s not a drug anywhere that can match the adrenaline high of pitting himself against the darkest parts of the universe and _winning_. “It worked,” he says.

“No, it didn’t.” Shiro’s golden eyes flare as he bares his fangs. This too is familiar. A decade back Keith laid on this shore and dealt with his demon. Here, at the end of the road and the end of his soul, he’s almost grateful for the familiarity.

Adrenaline’s finally starting to wear off and maybe that’s why he feels it. All of it. The pressure on his lungs and the gouges where La Llorona took her pound of flesh. “Oh,” Keith says. “Shit.”

“You’ve got a deal left.” Yes, he does. One deal, one last shred of soul. They’ve never discussed what happens after the last deal, but Keith’s got ideas. Knows that it doesn’t always lead right to hell, but most times it does. Dying in the water or dying beneath the stars is all the same. “Ask me to heal you.”

“Kiss me.”

There’s some triumph in this too—in how Shiro’s eyes go wide and his massive hand tightens around Keith’s arm. “Make a deal,” Shiro commands. But his demon’s going soft and it comes out more like a prayer.

“That’s my deal,” Keith says. “Kiss me.” There’s a story that goes like this. Old legends that still carry weight in the desert. A coyote and his little king pulled from the waters. It doesn’t matter if it got a happy ending, he’ll take Shiro leaning down and kissing him.

Shiro kisses like he wants to punish and mark Keith. Fangs nicking at his upper lip and tongue chasing away the blood. Heat pulses through Keith’s body, consuming as a forest fire, until he’s half certain that everything he was before has burned clean. Whimpering high in his throat, he chases the pleasure pain Shiro’s offering.

When Shiro pulls back, Keith licks at his upper lip and inhales. The air comes too easy. Gamely, he lifts his hand and examines his palm. No cut. “That wasn’t the deal,” he says, letting his hand drop back to the bank.

Shiro rubs his thumb across Keith’s lower lip. “You never asked what would happen after your last deal.”

Keith bites at Shiro’s thumb and relishes the sting of blood rising beneath his new fangs. Shiro’s eyes fade from gold to driftwood. Reassuring enough that Keith braves asking: “Does this mean you’re going to keep me?”

“Yes, little king,” Shiro says. It sounds like a promise and tastes like a kiss and after a decade of deals, it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> did you know coyotes mate for life? i'm just saying all those paranormal romances with True Mates would work better with coyotes than wolves. something something, i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/akaiikowrites) sometimes.


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